


mark breaks an ankle

by snowflakesautumnleaves



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Insecurity, Overworking, idrk how to write oneshots but i tired, mark breaks his ankle, pls give me constructive criticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:47:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25925368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowflakesautumnleaves/pseuds/snowflakesautumnleaves
Summary: Staying several hours in the practice room after the rest of the members had gone home, an exhausted Mark falls and injures himself.
Kudos: 140





	mark breaks an ankle

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This was a spur of the moment, "i need to write something, anything right now" kind of thing and there isn't much more to it than what the description says. Let me know if you enjoyed it and feel free to leave constructive criticism.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

A drop of sweat rolled over the protruding bone of Mark’s cheek, down the edge of his jaw, and dripped onto the pale wood of the practice room floor. Its journey went unnoticed by Mark; it was one of the hundreds of salty beads forming on and falling from the surface of his already moist skin as he—for what might have been the seven hundredth time that night (but don’t ask him, everything that happened 10 p.m. might as well have happened simultaneously as far as his muddled brain was concerned)—pressed ‘play’ on the stereo and trudged his way to his starting position.

It was late, far, far too late for him to still be in this room, dancing like the never-tiring machine the world viewed him as, and so, so many hours had passed since the other members had walked out of the practice room door, turning back to shoot him nervous, worried, pitiful glances before disappearing into the hall.

Mark had chosen to stay behind— _ just a few more hours Taeyong-hyung, I promise  _ —because, for some god-forsaken reason, he, the group’s main dancer, was incapable of correctly dancing an entire verse worth of choreography during the many hours their rehearsal had lasted. It didn’t matter that he was tired, having spent the past few aggravating nights turning over every few minutes until he managed to succumb to a couple of hours of mere semi-consciousness, or that his muscles ached as though they were being peeled from his bone filament by filament. They had a comeback to prepare for and less than a month to perfect it. Mark needed to fix his wrongdoings and head into their next practice with more than an elementary understanding of the choreography.

Taeyong’s worried glances made him second guess his decision (they did still have a  _ month _ left) but Mark craved perfection, needed it to the point that the idea of  _ not _ staying behind and  _ not _ fixing his mistakes  _ now _ made his stomach churn and his heart pound.

He promised Taeyong that ’just a few hours’ was all he would need to grasp the choreography and he was right. He was dancing it near flawlessly by the time hour hand on the clock hanging above the mirrors struck 1. It was at that point that he should have resigned himself, lugged himself and his backpack back to the dorm to take a hot shower, and have an attempt of sleep, but he couldn’t help but fixate on the annoying way that  _ near _ modified _ flawless.  _ There was so much work he could still do if he stayed just a little bit longer. Perhaps enough to eliminate  _ near _ from the sentence altogether.

_ This will be the last time _ he told himself as he began to move to the music an hour later. His limbs were heavy and his head was fuzzy. He couldn’t make his reflection out in the mirror. He tried to jump but his knees were numb and he couldn’t seem to tell when his foot had left the ground, though he was oh so painfully aware of when it reconnected.

He heard the snap first. He didn’t feel the pain until he was already laying sideways on the ground, cheekbone pressed harshly against the wood. White-hot pain seared in his ankle and a small scream flew out of his lips with his head tilted back. His eyes squeezed shut the fire licked up the calf of his right leg. He was only vaguely aware of the tears streaming from his eyes.

The song ended and the room was now full only of the sharp gasps and agonizing whines leaving his mouth every few seconds as he struggled to cope with the pain.

And then his phone rang.

Mark blinked his eyes open (and fought to keep them that way), biting his tongue to keep from screaming as he processed the new noise that filled the room. It was the ringtone he had set for Johnny years ago—some stupid 2000s American pop song that made Mark think of him—and Mark knew he had to answer it.

The one problem with that, though, was that Mark’s phone was what was playing their comeback song initially, and was plugged into the sound system in the corner of the room.

It took a split-second for Mark to decide that that wasn’t going to stop him. He needed help, needed Johnny, and the distance between himself and his lifeline wasn’t going to stop him from getting it. Even if he couldn’t walk.

He rolled onto his stomach, the movement making his ankle brush against the floor, and, subsequently, he let out a horrific scream. He squeezed his eyes shut as pain took over his body and vision, but pushed himself up onto his arms nonetheless (adrenaline was a true blessing), and began to crawl. Each push forward was more agonizing than the last, and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood due to the force he was using to keep his teeth sunk into his tongue. 

He made it to the stereo, the phone somehow still ringing— _ Johnny must have called twice,  _ he thought—and Mark grasped hold of the small table it sat on and pulled himself up onto the knee of his good leg, the bad one laying limply behind him. He swiped his phone from the system and yanked the auxiliary cord out of it with all the strength he had left, pressed answer, and sunk back against the wall knowing that, had it not been there, he would have landed flat on the ground.

His voice was scratchy and shaky when he answered the call. “Hyung…” 

Johnny appeared not to pick up on the difference in Mark’s voice as he launched into a scolding.  _ “Mark Lee, what the hell happened to ‘a few’ hours? It’s nearly two in the morning and Taeyong is pacing up and down the living room freaking out because you aren’t back yet.” _

Tears filled Mark’s eyes quickly. Partly because of the pain, but also because of Johnny’s anger. He hadn’t meant to make anyone worry. He just wanted to practice, wanted to be perfect for everyone but he had gone and fucked that up too. “Hyung…” he said again, only this time it came out with a sob.

_ “Mark?”  _ Johnny’s tone had flipped, no longer angry but worried, scared,  _ “Mark what’s wrong?” _

“Hurts…”

_ “Hurts? What hurts? Are you okay?” _ Mark could hear worried mumbles of Taeyong’s voice in the background of the call. All he could make out was  _ what’s going on? _

“Fell,” he sobbed, leaning forward and accidentally brushing his ankle with his free hand, causing him to let out a scream that jumbled as he rushed to cover his mouth. “Hurtso bad, Johnny.”

_ “Taeyong and I are on our way. Try not to move too much,”  _ Johnny said. “ _ Can you tell me what exactly hurts?” _

“Leg. Ankle, it’s the ankle.” He bit his tongue to suppress a sob as another wave of pain consumed him. He wondered how he hadn’t bitten all the way through it yet.

“ _ Fuck,” _ Johnny muttered,  _ “Just stay still. Keep talking to me okay, you can’t pass out. Keep talking… _ ”

It felt like Mark was in hell, quite literally an  _ eternity _ of agony while he waited what he knew couldn’t have been more than ten minutes for Johnny and Taeyong to find him. The two of them burst through the door, both out of breath and Johnny with his cellphone held to his ear. They were in their pajamas. They had not even wasted time to change out of their slippers and into outdoor shoes.

“Oh,  _ baby,”  _ Taeyong gasped, dropping to his knees by Mark’s side in seconds. Johnny was quick to follow. 

Mark did his best not to burst into even more tears, but the pain in his leg was mixing with the pain in his heart which seemed to have been ripped open when his Hyungs landed on either side of him.

Johnny took his right leg in his hands, intending to lift it off the ground, roll up the pant leg, and see the severity of the damage that had been done, but the second his fingertips brushed the limb, Mark screamed and tears spilled over his eyes. Johnny immediately retracted his hand and Mark delved into sobs. “Taeyong we have to take him to the hospital. His ankle is broken at the very least, I couldn’t even touch him…”

Taeyong nodded and spoke to Mark, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. “Mark-yah, I know it hurts but I need you to tell me what happened.”

But Mark just shook his head. “I’m sorry”—sob—“I didn’t mean it—just wanted it to be perfect—I’m sorry!”

Taeyong’s eyes widened. That had not been the response he was expecting. “Mark, shh, It’s okay. There’s nothing to be sorry for. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Mark spoke again, between hiccups. “Did the dance wrong…stayed too late and did it wrong then too…f-fell.”

Johnny and Taeyong exchanged worried glances. Mark had, at some point, started swimming to the deep end of his insecurities. It would be something they needed to discuss later but at the moment, they needed to get Mark medical attention. “Johnny you’ll have to pick him up. Don’t touch his leg.”

“Got it,” Johnny said.

“Mark listen to me,” Taeyong said, half to help Mark calm down, half with the hope he would be able to distract him from the pain long enough for Johnny to get him off the ground. “You’re okay. You’ve done nothing wrong. I promise.”

Mark looked at him hazily from Johnny's arms, his eyes barely staying open. “Promise?”

“I promise.”


End file.
